I paid the frightened little waitress. The English Tommies were taking eyefulls instead of mouthsfull. I was angered. I was minding my own business. Why could not the Englishman mind his. The more I thought of it, the warmer I got. Turning to him I said, “You not only don’t mind your own business, but you don’t know where you are. You are in France, where soldiers are treated as men.” Half an hour later, the Englishman, accompanied by a Frenchman in uniform, stopped me in the street. The Frenchman spoke,— “Good day, mister.” “Good day!” “Will you show me your papers, if you please?” “Who are you—are you a policeman?” “No.” “What right have you to see my papers?” “I belong to the Bureau.” “The Bureau of shirkers?” “No, the Bureau of the Place.” “Well, I will show them at the proper time and place.” A small crowd had collected. A poilu, covered with trench mud, asked, “What is the matter?” “Oh, this fellow wants to see my papers.” “Well, haven’t you got them?” “Yes.” “Let me see them.” At the first glance he saw the Foreign Legion stamp. “Ha, ha, la Legion! I know the Legion, come along and we will have a litre of wine.” So, we two walked away and left the crowd disputing among themselves. I remarked to the Englishman, who had stood silently watching, “I told you before, you were too ignorant to mind your own business. Now, you see you are.” The wine disposed of, we parted. Looking back, I saw the Englishman following a hundred yards behind. He crossed the street and stood on the opposite corner. He stopped three English officers and told his little tale of woe. They crossed, in perfect time, spurs jingling, and bore down, three abreast, upon me, the pauvre poilu, who did not salute. “You have come from England, where you have been spending your convalescence?” “Yes.” “Have you your convalescence papers with you?” “Of course.” “You must excuse me; but, would you mind showing them?” “Certainly, with pleasure.” After scanning them, one said to the other, “They look all right.” No answer. “They look all right, don’t they, Phil?” No answer. The junior officer, a Lieutenant, conducted the examination. Of the other two older men, one turned his head away, looking down the street, the other gazed at the Lieutenant with a peculiar, almost disgusted expression. I then asked, “By the way, is it the business of the English in France to demand the credentials of French soldiers? What right has that man to interfere with me?” “You must show your papers to the military authorities.” “Is that man a ‘military authority’?” The Lieutenant looked round and not seeing the disturber, turned to Phil, “Where is he?” “Oh, I don’t know. He said something about going to get the military police. Let’s go.” The Lieutenant, turning to me, said, “It is all right. You may go and tell that man we said you were all right.” I did not move, but stood at attention and saluted while the officers walked away.